Dirge Patterns
by Ars Arpadok
Summary: What would the relationship between a female Jedi Exile and Darth Sion be like?
1. The Song at the Center of the World

**Characters are the sole property of Lucas Arts and Obsidian Entertainment the author neither seeks nor receives any profit. **

This story is rated **M** for good reason. It explores **adult** themes and theories of sadomasochism. It came out of a marathon of playing through KOTORII and alternating between reading _The Possessed_ and watching various _Hellraiser _films when the game frustrated me too much. If that's not enough of a warning for you about what this story contains I don't know what is. One more time now, if you are disturbed by theories or descriptions of sadomasochistic themes PLEASE READ SOMETHING ELSE. 

Thank you.

_Dirge Patterns_

He was in the center of a massive room. The ceiling was held up by pillars carved into twisted humanoid shapes, or perhaps the pillars were only decorative. Maybe the room was hewn from the living rock. Only the middle of the great space was clearly visible; the walls cast into shadow. The light came from a gigantic, square skylight that seemed to go up and up for dozens of meters. The floor was made up of ancient looking flagstones, rough and cracked and uneven.

He spun through a series of combat forms in the shaft of light, taking no notice of the irregular footing at all. The light defined his stage; his kata both an exercise and a performance. For whom, she wondered for a moment. Then she realized, with a sudden reflexive tightening of the muscles in her lower abdomen, that _she_ seemed to be the intended audience. There was no one else in the room or, she felt, for many meters around.

His movements were both familiar and yet foreign; motions that he had adapted to his evolving philosophy and physical ability. His muscles no longer flowed as they should have in many places. They were too torn. His bones too fragmented to support them in a recognizable configuration. Yet move they did: like every part of him his ability to maintain his body through such totally specialized mastery of the Force was more entrancing than any simple, organic play of limbs and joints and fibers. The power; the naked, confident ferocity of his style enhanced the effect. His mind, his self, seemed laid bare by his motions: he reveled in his power, in the otherness of it, in the feelings of terror and morbid fascination that his appearance, his very existence, inspired. For a creature supposedly so driven by hatred, she mused, Darth Sion seemed strongly tied to this twisted sort of joy.

She realized then that she had been approaching the central square while these thoughts chased each other though her mind. She stood now only one or two short paces from its edge; close enough to hear him snarl and hiss at odd moments. Maybe he had not executed a movement to his satisfaction; perhaps the pain associated with forcing his body to perform the motion tore these sounds from him. But she knew the answer to her speculations: his kata, executed perfectly, caused his physical pain. That very thing which he needed to hold himself in life; a failed movement combined anger at his failure with the pain and fed the same well-spring. Perfection or failure, neither mattered so long as they generated the requisite emotions.

She felt herself reaching out through the Force, wanting to feel the purity and honesty of those sensations, so different from what she usually allowed herself. She had only brushed against his presence, just tasted his aura; all pain, rage and passion, when he spun. Though he must have sensed her before this moment, indeed she suspected he had been aware of her since before she had entered this room, his gaze was surprised and then angry. Every part of her that was identifiably Jedi shrieked at her that she had no way to defend herself, that she must flee now or be the latest victim of Sion's personal genocide. The rest of her refused to move: the majority won out in the end. When his hands closed just above her elbows she felt a strange, fearsome sort of joy for a fleeting instant.

He was taller than her by a fair margin and also much stronger. His long association with the Dark Side lent him that power and she had only just begun to reconnect with the much subtler Light. His hands bruised her arms and strained her shoulders as he pulled them down with unnatural strength. His aura pinned her to the stones, nearly smothering her with those fierce emotions that moments before had been so alluring: and yet, somehow, they still were. Even now as she wondered if he would kill her quickly or take his time she basked in the intensity of his connection to the Force.

He leant closer to her face, bending from the waist but maintaining his grip on her arms. Bending her with him, backwards as he came forward. His shattered face was close enough to hers that she could feel his breath; too hot to come from anything human. She thought that it should smell of death, of decay but it did not. There was an unmistakable scent of hot metal and ozone, blood and lasers, but she did not find it unpleasant. This close to him she continued to be battered by his feelings but she noticed that they were shifting. She could discern no murderous intent beyond his usual rage. If anything the savage joy from earlier seemed to be increasing. It was still savage but now also something more, both darker and lighter than it had been.

He was very close. She could feel the air between them pressing down on her forehead, nose and mouth; heating from contact with his skin. Something in her spine popped painfully and her shoulder joints ground against the extreme edges of her clavicle. Sion could see the pain in her eyes; he smiled, pulled a fraction harder and pressed his torso into hers to bend her farther back. Even as the pain raced through her nerve endings something else sparked in her brain, tiny shivers of pleasure shimmered along side the pain; increasing one and another. He saw this too. His smile widened; cracked. His lips were on hers now; not a kiss, just lying against hers. He breathed in as she exhaled, as though he could draw those conflicting sensations from her that way.

Then she felt it. She felt his pleasure at the contact, overcoming his rage and pain and hate as hers overcame her will to calm and peace and detachment. There was no more right or wrong action. Light and Dark disappeared, swept from her consciousness by a rising tide of something else.

He was no longer smiling.

If she moved, if he did, they would both fall. A fall far longer and darker than either of them had known. There would be anguish and joy to such degrees in that fall that it would tear them apart, one sensation would become indistinguishable from the other. She moved her mouth, shifting her jaw slightly so that the contact between them would be made real, would begin their swan dive into that strange darkness.

She woke overly warm with his scent still in her mind; hot metal and lasers and something like the smell of the air just before a violent storm, when the light turns sulfuric and the wind dies. His eyes, the dark and the clouded, stared out of the shadowed recesses of her mind filled with the same indescribable desire that screamed through her. She fell from her low bed, crawled to the 'fresher and was sick. The sweat cooled on her body, chilling her but she could not face the bed again. Somewhere nearby she felt that Kreia had directed her attention toward her. She got unsteadily to her feet, taking several moments to center herself before she went in search of the old woman.


	2. The Limits of Imagination

**Oh dear, I've put Foucault into a ****fan fiction. I can almost here my old theory professor weeping. Je vous en prie Dr. Gayet. Disclaimers as in the first chapter.**

_The pleasure that comes of exercising a power that questions, monitors, watches, spies, searches out, palpates, brings to light; and on the other hand the pleasure that kindles at having to evade this power, flee from it, fool it, or travesty it. The power that lets itself be invaded by the pleasure it is pursuing; and opposite it, power asserting itself in the pleasure of showing off, scandalizing, or resisting. Capture and seduction, confrontation and mutual reinforcement. . . . These attractions, these evasions, these circular incitements have traced around bodies and sexes, not boundaries not to be crossed, but perpetual spirals of power and pleasure. _

−Michel Foucault

Kreia was, unsurprisingly, seated in the main hold. Feeling too agitated still to take one of the seats next to her the Exile instead leaned against the center consul. Neither woman spoke for some considerable time. It was the Exile who finally broke the silence, realizing at length that the old woman would not do so for her.

--How much did you see?

--Most.

She felt herself begin to go hot in the face under Kreia's blind eyes. The woman saw things that the Exile would have kept secret; would have preferred to lie about, pass her disquiet off as something else and deal with it on her own. Even as this line of reasoning finished itself a part of her realized that this was precisely the wrong thing to do. If she fought alone, resisted with only her own limited strength she would certainly fall. Kreia was a buttress that could help to hold her firm against the temptation of such dreams.

--Why? Why him?

And why in such a way, her mind finished but her lips did not form the words. Kreia would know.

--He is obsessed by the idea of destroying the Jedi. You, as the last, are the ultimate fulfillment of a quest he has pursued for decades.

--He did not seem to wish for my death.

--No. But then perhaps, as the last, you have become something different to him. To kill you would leave him without a purpose and that one is a creature of simple ambitions.

--But we know that I am not the last, and surely he must now too. I thought I sensed him very close by as we left Telos.

--And so he was. You are most likely correct about his knowing of the secret academy and Atris, as well as of our search for the remaining masters. But he may have know already: through other means more subtle than simple pursuit. You though, are still something of a fundamental goal for him it seems. Perhaps it is that you escaped him and continue to evade his pursuit even now, for far longer than any pervious Jedi he has sought. You are also different from any other. You made a choice that no other could; you failed to fall when Jedi seemingly stronger than you did. You were banished and returned. You should not be able to reach the Force and yet you can. As a trophy you are far more interesting than any of the others now living or dead.

--I can understand that but…what does such a dream mean…I have never had one like it.

--This dream of yours may mean nothing. You have already demonstrated an ability to reach out unconsciously and connect to force-senstives around you, especially in times of stress.

--You mean the bond that formed between you and I on Peragus?

--Partially.

--I do not have such a bond with _him_ though.

--No, not such as we have but there may be some kind of connection; an awareness perhaps of each other. You have sensed no other wielders of the Force for example and yet you said only a moment ago that you felt his proximity on Telos.

--I don't understand. You mean to tell me that we, he and I, created a tie of some kind in the Force while he was trying to _kill_ me? Why would he wish such a thing?

--Perhaps it is not just him. The Force may prey upon desires hidden within us all.

--You can not mean to imply that I want him to kill me?

Kreia did not respond for a long time. T3 was somewhere nearby; in the engine room most likely, humming and whirring to himself in a way that sounded almost like the droid equivalent of a snore. Atton was probably asleep in the cockpit, having refused to sleep in the starboard dormitory after picking a fight with Bao-Dur. Everyone was resting for as long as they could, it would be several hours yet before they reached Onderon and all were exhausted from the near constant combat and tension they had experienced on Telos. Sleep also provided some escape from the constant anticipation of the same or worse that lay ahead of them. Unless one was prone to dreams, which, judging from the silence of the ship the others, fortunately, were not.

Finally Kreia spoke.

--Not kill. No not kill. You yourself said that in your dream he did not seem interested in taking your life; more in punishing you perhaps?

--What? For what?

--You carry great guilt within you. Guilt over your decisions during the Madalorian Wars perhaps? Guilt over your time on the Outer Rim? Over the deaths your return has caused?

--I can't even remember most of my time as a General…

--But you can still feel the pain associated with what you can not recall. In addition to the rest. You radiate the pain of you guilt, of your loss. Perhaps when you sensed him part of you saw a way to atone for your past; to rid yourself of one p kind of pain by embracing another.

--But I did not let him kill me, or stop you from…

--I did not say it was a conscious part of you but the desire, I think, is there none the less. I sensed it when he first confronted us aboard the _Harbinger_. I sensed it and knew that I had to be sure that it remained unconscious or you would surely have tried to face him and been defeated.

--So you fought him instead.

--Yes.

--You said that the dream meant nothing. All of this does not sound unimportant.

--I said it may mean nothing and I continue to think so. That you have some tenuous connection to the Lord of Pain, that it is likely fed by your own desires for atonement, that it is manifesting in involuntary fantasies, is not unusual. It seems to me that it is simply your mind attempting to reconcile itself. I doubt if it will have any bearing upon reality.

--It could have been an echo of the future.

--Then be mindful but I do not think so. Darth Sion is not the creature you imagined him to be. He has no emotion but hatred and pain. He is dependent on both and there is no room for any other feeling. You have conjured your own nemesis and given him a recognizable face, that is all. You should go back to the dormitory and rest. You will need your strength.

She did not argue with Kreia. She did determine though to strengthen her mental shields, perhaps even ask Atton to help her; he had alluded to his ability with them she remembered. Something told her, a deep, quiet something that often stirred in Kreia's immediate presence, that the old woman was not telling all that she knew. That same niggling something told her also that this was not the last dream. She tried desperately to ignore the pleased shiver at the base of her spine at the thought.


	3. The Suffering of Strangers

_Existence is problematized in thought as the relationship, for a free man, between the exercise of his freedom, the forms of his power, and his access to truth._

−Michel Foucault

Nar Shaddaa had been difficult, half fighting and half negotiations. Dantooine seemed to have been nothing but one fight after another, topped off with over long conversations about things that slipped in and out of her memory in upsettingly unpredictable ways. Many of them seemed only to make sense if she didn't think about them too hard, like something that could be seen peripherally but vanished when one tried to focus directly on it. All of these things combined with the looming shadow she had begun to sense on Onderon to put her on edge; and finally, subtly honing that edge sharper still were her memories of things that had never happened but might occur again when ever she slept.

She had been able to ignore her anxiety for some time. The almost continual stress of fighting and walking the fine line between words and weapons had forced her exclusively into the moment. Unable to dwell on anything but the task directly at hand or immediately ahead had also prevented her, in the few time she had been able to rest, to do anything but sleep like one dead until action was needed again. She had not even meditated since leaving Telos. Now though the _Ebon Hawk_ cruised through hyperspace on its long journey to what seemed the very root of her fear.

Three days into the journey and it would take two more before they reached their destination. Korriban must be approached carefully; they did not wish to make their presences known until the last possible moment. Better to trap their quarry in its lair; but that was not the way she had phrased it to her companions. Then her words had been laced with warnings of caution in order to minimize danger to all; stealth so that they could slip Master Vash out unharmed and with the fewest possible casualties to all. She lied so fluently that no one had suspected. It helped that Kreia was absent. Though her shields were now very good she was still unsure whether or not they were strong enough to block the crone. She had slept or meditated for most of the first three days. Now though; now that the call of the Dark Side began to slide over her, to lap at the edges of her consciousness, she remained wakeful.

She was seated now at the controls in the cockpit, staring into the shifting patterns of hyperspace. She had pushed the dream images from her conscious mind for weeks; they came now and she rolled them around and around in her mind, examining each moment individually. Kreia had said that the Exile saw the Sith Lord as an embodiment of her desire to atone for her wrongs; such seemed reasonable until she recalled the final act of her dream. The moment when Sion stopped smiling and she saw her craving mirrored in his eyes. Surely an avenger would not share the victim's desire for penance?

The swirl just past the cockpit windows was hypnotic. She let it combine with her rhythmic examination of the dream and push her towards that place she had dreaded and wished for.

He stood before a great broken door way that yawned into the dark beyond. More twisted humanoid shapes flanked each side of it, these even larger than those in the interior: one intact one broken. The air was dry and dusty; hot but cooling quickly as it seemed to be near sunset on this world. The entire building appeared carved into the red-ochre rock of a canyon. The walls cast the floor around them into twilight even though the smear of warm colors overhead of the far left hand face showed that the sun was not fully down.

He did not smile. He strode towards her, grabbing her arms once again before she had come to a complete halt. Though that supernatural heat still radiated off of him his eyes were cold this time.

--What game do you play at?

She could not respond; her eyes flicked toward the black maw of the door behind him, wondering momentarily where it led to, what was inside.

--I know you come to rescue her. She picked a foolish place to go to ground, this is _my_ place. I know it; what resides here better than she ever could. She walked willingly into a trap that I did not even need to spring. She wanted to be captured.

He freed one of her arms momentarily in order to wrap his hand around her throat. He applied almost no pressure; it was a threat, a promise of things to come.

--You know this though. You must and yet you are still coming, aren't you?

His fingers tightened spasmodically on the sides of her neck.

--You travel with _her_ don't you? I can not feel you approach, only the emptiness of something that should be there.

His hand on her throat tightened more, beginning now to make breathing difficult. The muscles in the column of her neck moved reflexively, trying to expand and draw down more air. He pressed his palm against them, feeling the spasms, watching their expansion and contraction closely. As he did his arm drew closer to his body, bringing her with it. They barely touched now, her chest just brushing his with each in-drawn breath. She stared at his faces, transfixed by the cracks and fissures, the milky eye and the dark one.

There was an awful splendor to it, to him; like a ruin of an ancient city destroyed through violence, broken and crumbling but still echoing with the life of lost thousands. If one stared long enough at the devastation one began to imagine what it must have been like new and gradually that vibrant fantasy, and the act of will it took to maintain, became more important than the present. So were her thoughts and feelings transfixed. He blinked.

--She is using you to try to weaken me. You are her pawn now as I was but you do not even have the strength to see it. I do not yet know why; what her ultimate plan may be, but I shall, soon.

She did not counter him. He seemed to be searching for an answer in her face now but there was none; or rather there was not the one he wished to find.

--Why do you stare at me so?

His voice was a snarl. He shook her by the arm and neck but drew her closer than ever after a brief moment. They were pressed together as in her previous dream, chest to chest, one of her legs between his, one of his between hers. They stood in this strange mockery of an embrace on a dead planet that she had never seen but knew she would soon; the heaving motion of his breathing bringing their faces nearly together. She realized then that her hand was free; was moving of its own accord. It gripped his upper arm, digging into the overly warm flesh: seeking to give him back some of the pain he was causing her or perhaps encouraging him to continue, to do more.

She was beginning to loose consciousness now, lack of oxygen making her vision hazy at the edges. She could feel the flesh of her arm and throat bruising in his grip; her lungs and brain screamed for air but that part of her that was not flesh: was beyond flesh, shuddered ecstatically at the power engulfing it. His proximity again allowed her to feel an answering tremor in the same part of him. She felt the connection now, the one Kreia had alluded to. Her pain answered his desire for it. In him she felt an agony possibly greater than hers, one that could perhaps even engulf it; free her from it.

She began to realize a kindred sensation in him. He desired to subvert himself, his pain, to hers. She began to understand the options before her more clearly; the balance between them that must shift.

He did not give her the choice this time. He flung her away from him; against a piece of debris that shattered when she struck it. There was something like fear in his dark eye when he looked at her now. His emotions choked his voice into a nearly unintelligible rasp as he formed the words that would haunt them both for a long, long time to come.

--What are you?


	4. The Further Regions of Experience

**Now with the references to **_**Crime and Punishment**_**. If there is a literary hell I think I may be heading for it. Also, pardon my asking but does Darth Sion seem vaguely Scottish to anyone else? No need to answer, think of it as a rhetorical question. **

_The moth flying into the candle itself_

−Fyodor Dostoevsky

When she came to the entrance to the abandoned academy it took every part of her body to stop from laughing and her entire consciousness to break the link to Kreia before the old woman could get a firm read on her state of mind. She could feel Visas tense in response to her sudden emotional shift. Atton might not have been as sensitive as the girl but he hovered close to the Exile picking up on the strange alteration in mood through more mundane, physical observation. She took an extra moment to compose herself, preparing a lie about fatigue from the march through the Valley of the Dark Lords should either ask for a reason for the halt. Neither did. After a time she even managed to speak in a way that sounded almost normal.

--This place will be defended. Watch yourselves.

She had known he would be nearby; had been able to feel his Force signature radiating out of the dark, nearly drowning out her sense of her companions and so was almost prepared for the sight of him moments after they entered the academy; though she again felt the familiar flutter of unidentifiable emotional ripple in her abdomen. His greeting was the usual mixture of threats and challenges to ensure that he was not robbed of his fight. Despite his arrogant façade she had learned enough about his reactions to notice his agitation; the way he shifted his weight slightly and unnecessarily while speaking. His good eye seemed to only partially observe the trio before him; searching for something behind them. She saw in that eye, when he did fully focus on her, that he had not found it; saw his anger and near confusion; saw those feelings drive him to stalk deeper into the academy without further verbal hostility leaving them to face his killers and beasts.

She confronted each skirmish through the facility half heartedly at best, letting her companions do most of the fighting; making sure only that neither was too badly injured nor imperiled. She could not place her preoccupation for some time. Initially she had thought that it was his nearness, or perhaps echoes of his unbalance; but as she examined it more closely in the calm between ambushes and tests she found its source to be elsewhere. Clouded as her senses were by the place and his presence she could not name that root cause until just before they stumbled upon it.

She finally understood the origin of her distraction and the reason she had mistaken it for something related to Sion's state of mind at the door to the detention hall. They were both searching for someone that was not at the academy. She let Atton reach what had been Master Vash first, Visas approached in step with her. Atton did not speak, merely rose and shook his head after a brief moment. She heard Visas confirm that she had felt the death shortly after their arrival on the planet's surface. Both stepped back at her request and she bent to examine the corpse.

That Visas's force-sight must be more damaged then she let on became quickly evident to the Exile. Vash had been dead for far less time than had elapsed between their landing and now. She was not a medical specialist but, knowing Sion as she did, she guessed Vash had died minutes after the doors to the academy had sealed shut behind them. Enraged at being wrong in his assumptions about the makeup of her party he had come directly here and destroyed their reason for coming; destroyed another hope of hers for regaining some of her past. He must have known that she would be unbalanced by the amount of Dark energy running through the entire planet; must also have felt her further distraction at his physical presence and taken advantage of it. But such things cut two ways; she had thrown him off balance too and so he had thought quickly and acted to regain the upper hand. It was very clever really; Kreia dismissed him as nothing but a creature of pain and hate but he still managed to enact these brutal little stratagems when backed into corners. She should have remembered his actions on the _Harbinger, _he had played the same hand here, to much the same effect; she would meet him on his terms on a battlefield that he had reshaped to suit.

There seemed no point in delaying now. She allowed Atton to access the console and open the door for them. She knew where he was though she regretted that Atton and Visas would have to be present for the reckoning that was coming between herself and Sion; she could not have said if this was because she feared for their safety or resented the fact that their presence would deny her the opportunity to exact all the answers she desired from him. That he would fight them: her, in the place of their first, true encounter was something she had known the instant they had first entered that room; she led them back there now.

He appeared from the darkness at the edges of the room, flanked by two of his assassins. Her companions tensed as he began to speak, scoffing at her search for answers among the dead. She heard something beneath his words though she could not put a name to it. He nearly purred when he told her of immersing himself in her, in her life and battles. She felt the tremor at his tone, at his words, run up her spine, tightening her throat and jaw. His signature in the force intensified with each phrase, making her remember the heat of him, his smell. His voice was almost soft, the rhythm of his speech intimate though they were surrounded by their followers. He was pressing against her with his words and mind, trying to break through the walls she guarded her interior self with. In an instant she realized her vulnerability and advantage; she opened the barriers around her mind a crack. She let him taste her emotions as he battered her with his. She saw him stop dead, his good eye widening. For a long moment no one moved. The sound of their breathing washed over them bouncing and shimmering off of the stone of the room until it came back to them amplified and yet distant; making the room seem to hold more than just six people. In this haunted place it was deeply disconcerting.

When he spoke again his voice was tightly controlled. He warned her of the one she traveled with, her master, and so it seemed, his as well. She heard that thing like fear creep into his voice again as he foretold her imminent destruction and recalled his own: and then he made her the most tender offer imaginable from one such as himself. He offered her the option to come to him and die quickly while she still had the option.1 She wanted to ask him so many things, to challenge him maybe; but in the end her curiosity and suspicion about Kreia's intentions won out and she demanded to know more about his connection.

He actually seemed to tease her with his answer. As he spoke of knowing the beldam as his master and as hers he very nearly seemed to smile, but when she pressed him further his levity vanished, consumed by his hatred and jealousy. He called her a wretched thing then; she heard his inward revulsion as much as his outward venom. She heard again that elusive something beneath his words, and emotion she could not place; but her exhaustion and distraction compounded upon themselves and she could not parse out the answer then. Their only option was combat.

She had thought herself ready for him; recalling his movements from her dream-vision but the reality was much…more then she had thought. He was faster, stronger and much more aggressive than any of them. The impact from blocking his blows screamed in the spaces between her shoulders; the floor cracked and shifted unpredictably making her fight for each firm foothold. She struck him though; felt the blade of her lightsaber slow and jerk as it did only when connecting with flesh and yet he came on as though nothing had happened. Suddenly he kicked her feet out from under her and spun to face Atton, who had finished off the Sith assassin more quickly than Visas. She flipped herself to her feet violently ignoring the shrieking pain from her abdominal muscles, knowing Atton to be no match for this Sith alone.

She attacked again but realized in a horrified instant that she had left herself hideously exposed for his counterstrike. It seemed that he would spare her the tortures of the witch after all; yet he did not take his advantage. Instead he knocked her off her feet once more and took on both Atton and Visas. In that instant, flat on her back waiting to feel the deaths of at least one of her companions, she heard Kreia's voice in her head once more. The hairline opening she had left for Sion had remained and now her 'master' had wormed her way back in. Her anger broke down what was left of the barrier across her thoughts. She saw both Sion and Visas pause as they felt her sudden rage. In the end though that moment allowed her to gather some of her senses and follow the advice imparted. She grabbed Atton and threw him toward the hallway that led to the entrance; he stumbled but caught her meaning and broke into a clumsy sprint, clutching his side. Visas followed an instant later. As they ran she felt him give up pursuit behind them. Felt his aura change, soften towards something that frightened and thrilled her.

As they fled toward the entrance she felt him brush against her dangerously open mind. He did not press though, it was almost a caress. They exited and the door slid shut behind them she and she doubled over retching and shivering. She could not bear to let either of her companions try to physically help her, violently throwing their concerned hands off of her body. She felt elated, powerful, like she could wrench her destiny from the hands of others for the first time in years; but also deeply betrayed and terrified of where her path would lead whether she chose it for herself or not. Though who had deceived her she could not tell.

1 Adapted from _Hellraiser III._ Why yes, I am obsessed.


	5. Freedom From the Future

_As when in dreams a thirsty man seeks to drink…he seeks the image of water, striving in vain, and in the midst of a rushing river thirsts while he drinks: so in love Venus mocks lovers with images._

−Lucretius

The color of Visas's clothing made gauging the flow of blood from the ragged claw wounds difficult in the deep shadows the coated the Valley of the Dark Lords. The Miraluka girl was badly off though, the last shyrac attack had come from seemingly nowhere and had fallen hardest on her as the last member of the party. Atton and the Exile had barely managed to fight them off of her and now it seemed that the girl might be unable to make it back to the _Ebon Hawk_. Not for the first time since they had left the ship she deeply regretted her decision to take Atton and not either Bao-Dur or Mical or even Ordo. The scoundrel-pilot was loath to touch the injured girl for any longer than absolutely necessary, leaving most of the work of checking and binding the wounds to the Exile herself. Now it seemed that he was not going to volunteer to help carry their fast fading companion to the ship.

She cursed his squeamishness about Visas's ability to read thoughts almost unconsciously through touch none too quietly as she attempted to adjust the girl's fainting frame against and over her side and shoulders. Not that Atton could hear, he was a good five meters ahead "scouting." She hoped he'd come back if they ran into major trouble. Visas moaned softly and stumbled, nearly sending them over but she managed to catch herself before both hit the ground. She took a deep breath and turned her face toward the Exile but could not even complete her first syllable.

--Don't ask me to leave you again and don't give me that 'my life for yours' foolishness.

--But Mistress…I slow you too much. The Other or his minions will catch you.

She hoped that the shudder that passed through her at the mention of Sion could be mistaken again for fatigue. These physical ticks at the very thought of the Lord of Pain were becoming a nuisance. She needed desperately to meditate, sort out and restrain her reactions. That time would not come until they reached the thrice damned ship. Visas appeared about to speak again.

--Don't. I will not leave you. You have yet to take me to your master after all.

That seemed to silence her even if she did not manage to support more of her own weight; forcing the smaller woman to shoulder the tall girl's heavier frame and struggle on. As they lurched on the Exile began to feel a strange, swirling, confused pressure against her mind. This must be the "prying" Atton complained about having experienced the last time the girl had been injured. In the light of her aching back and the protests of her legs at being forced to carry so much extra weight after a day of continuous stress she found the half conscious current easy to over look.

She lost track of the passage of time as they staggered on; she began to think that this Valley had no end she would simply drag Visas on forever. Then just as suddenly as her exhaustion fueled fantasy seemed reality Ordo materialized before them with the sound of T3's concerned bleating. When the armored warrior took the injured Visas from her arms without a word she suspected more fatigue-dreams but T3's dome was a solid presence beneath her hand and the ramp of the _Hawk_ seemed hard and real beneath her feet. She felt Bao-Dur and the magically re-present Atton take hold of each of her arms and support her after Canderous's retreating back into the med-suit.

She did not know how long she had slept when she woke but she did feel Visas conscious in the bed beside her. She chose not to acknowledge the girl immediately, opting instead to roll away from the other and sit up with her back to her. She should have known that a physical rebuttal of such a type would have no effect on the girl.

--You are agitated mistress, you should rest more.

--Where are we going Visas?

--Nowhere. Mical wanted to return to Dantooine, Mandalore to Dxun but Atton and Kreia decided to set a course for Telos.

A safe choice. Between Bao-Dur and the Ithorians they probably had relatively more allies on that planet than on any other at this point. Safe but totally wrong. There were things she needed urgently to do; questions that had to be answered lest her fragmented mind give too much away to the Sith Lord. Already he knew far more than he should about both her and her party; his unknown connection to Kreia was the most deeply unsettling. She needed to fully reconnect with the Force, to understand exactly what had happened to her more than a decade ago and why. There was only one place where that could happen.

She pushed herself off of the med-table, ignoring the pain in her shoulders and back; the sharp spirals of agony in her wrists where her tendons had been too sorely tested by the strength of her opponent. She felt pride that she made no sound during all of this though she knew that Visas could feel her hurt through the Force.

--What are you doing mistress?

--Going to tell Atton to change course. We need to go to Dantooine.

--But mistress…the old woman, your mentor, she said that the masters there are the same who stripped you of the Force…before. Will they not try again now that…?

She seemed to realize that she had said too much. The silence that followed was icy. Finally the Exile spoke, once she was certain she could do so with out grabbing the girl and slamming her into the bulkhead in the process.

--Now that _what_, Visas?

--I did not mean to pry, you were distracted on the surface of the planet and I…

--You are very free with your perusal of other people's thoughts girl. Have you spoken to any one about this?

--No, of course not.

--See that you don't. Oh and Visas, keep your distance from Kreia if you can not control your abilities.

She left the girl lying miserably on her cot and made what she hoped was a dignified exit. As soon as she reached the port side cargo hold she ducked into the door way, pressing herself against the wall, breathing raggedly. She had been harsh with the girl, too harsh if she was honest, it had not been Visas's fault that she had felt the true reason for her unrest. The Miraluka had been in much closer contact with the Sith Lords than anyone else; she knew what it was to be in their power and further more had tenuous control over her capabilities. There had been no reason to warn her away from the others, after all her loyalty began and ended with the Exile. Visas might even be able to help control, perhaps even halt, the dreams as well whispered a soft voice in her mind. She must have had similar experiences after all.

Before the thought had finished though she the Exile knew it to be a false hope. Visas was a creature born to be totally subservient she had never felt the ebb and flow of desire and power, never reveled in the pursuit from both sides as the Exile and Sion did. She was an empty vessel to be filled to overflowing. She thought the Exile the same. No, Visas's destiny was to be ground down under the power of others, she desired it, sought out stronger and stronger masters in search of her ultimate oblivion. The very idea that Visas might help anyone as anything but a servant was so ridiculous that she felt a mirthless laugh torn from her.

--What's so funny?

She spun to the left wondering how long Ordo had been watching her from the door.

--None of your concern.

--Wrong. You've been acting odd for weeks.

--You've never seen me in anything resembling normal circumstances Mandalorian.

--You can play the bitch with that girl but I know better woman. You have been more and more distracted. You stare at nothing, you loose focus too easily and this attitude you've copped to cover it all isn't going to fool anyone for much longer.

--Fine.

She ran her hands through her hair, pulling it out of its tail and into strange disarray at her temples as her hands fisted in it.

--I haven't lost focus in combat and I won't, that's not how I am. You of all people should know that by now.

--True, but no war is won only on battle fields. What will we do if you stumble into a fight not even we can handle because you aren't watching enough moves ahead? What are we going to do if you miss some vital piece of information that we need to get around the next prince, or crime lord, or Jedi?

She stared at him as though he had lost his mind.

--Did you just argue strategy with me? I thought you people were all about the fight in front of you.

--Don't be dense. I learned the importance of long range gambits from Cassus Fett, from Revan, _osik _woman I learned it from _you._ We lost the war because of your tactics, yours and Revan's. I rebuilt my clan because of _strategy_. I am not a fool and if you do not pull yourself together you will get someone killed. It won't be me but I know you'll take it badly if it's one of your boys or that decrepit witch.

She didn't respond, hoping he would leave after saying his piece. She should have known better. He leaned against the frame of the door with an air of having no where in the Universe he needed to be but right there for however long it took her to give him a satisfactory response. Unfortunately she didn't have one.

--I need to tell Atton to change course to Dantooine.

He examined the knuckles of his right hand.

--I've got to speak with the people who banished me. I need to know why exactly once and for all before I can do anything else. I can't move forward without reconciling my past Canderous. Now are you going to move or am I going to have to move you?

He thought about it for a moment.

--A spar might do you some good you fool. Tell your fly-boy then and meet me back here when you're done.

He moved aside to let her get by but grabbed her wrist lightly as she passed, ignoring her slight hiss of pain.

-- I know you're hurting so I'll go easy unless you try to dodge me. If you do that I will find you and I will kick your ass.

--_Vor'e_ Ordo.

She walked toward the cockpit; still not knowing what was in store for her on Dantooine and still smelling lasers and metal in her hair but feeling steadier than she had in weeks.


	6. Freedom From the Past

_It seemed to me he held a figure sleeping in his arms, naked except that it seemed to me to be covered lightly with a crimson cloth: gazing at it very intently I __realised__ it was the lady of the greeting, she who had deigned to greet me before that day. And in one of __his__ hands it seemed to me that he held something completely on fire, and he seemed to say to me these words: '__Vide __cor__tuum__: Look upon your heart. And when he had stood for a while, he seemed to wake her who slept: and by his art was so forceful that he made her eat the thing that burned in her hand, which she ate hesitantly._

−Dante

She woke slowly, feeling the warmth of sunlight on her face and stretched languidly before she opened her eyes. Rolling onto her side she looked out of the window across the room from the bed. Adega Besh was half way up the sky, bathing the square and buildings outside in warm yellow light. This was her favorite time of day. She rose and, wrapping the sheet around her body, crossed the floor to the window itself.

Below: the inhabitants walked across the warm caramel colored stones, pausing occasionally to peruse the contents of a stall or shop window. Clusters of brightly robbed scholars ambled toward the far end of the plaza, where they could catch shuttles to the Great Library; gesturing wildly over some disputed point or another. Occasionally an air taxi whizzed by while larger transports moved toward the South Docking port in the far distance. The landscaped fringes of the plaza echoed the verdant hills beyond the city. She could just make out the curves of the roof of the Great Library itself; a sloping sand colored break in the dark greens of the vegetation.

She heard the door to the main room slide open. She did not turn; the Force told her it was her lover and that they were alone in the apartment. He pressed his chest into her back, flattening her to the window and gathered her hair into his hand: moved it to one side so he could run his lips along the nape of her neck. She shivered, losing her grip on the sheet as she braced herself against the window with her right hand and ran her left palm over the contours of his skull. He had found the lump of bone that marked the start of the curve of her neck; his tongue swirled around in as he suckled gently, making her shiver uncontrollably and fall forward against the window. His hands crept along her sides, peeling away the thin cloth. She gasped at the contrast between the cool glass and the heat of his body tamped against her when he succeeded in ridding her of the offending material. She wanted to turn around and kiss him properly but he kept her pinned where she; one arm around her waist; continuing to lavish attention on her neck and the backs of her shoulders while his other hand drifted lower and lower on her abdomen.

Her mind was flooded with images of the previous evening. She saw the desperate coupling on the floor of the front room, driven by the weeks apart; the long banked desire for one another nearly unbearable. She saw the long slow love making, in the bed she had so recently vacated, hours later; each relearning the other's bodies, trying out new tricks they had only been able the think about during the long, lonely nights apart. She remembered the deep peace of finally dozing off draped across his chest; wrapped in his arms and his scent as the Northern sky lightened to grey with the coming sunrise.

He sank his teeth into her shoulder and she jerked back hard enough to break his grip on her waist. She took advantage of the momentary lapse to twist in his arms until they were face to face. He chuckled deep in his throat before lowering his face to hers. He was tender, taking his time, brushing her mouth with his repeatedly until she grabbed the back of his head and forcible deepened the kiss. He still held back slightly, meeting the rough thrust of her tongue and sharp nips with soft caresses and licks. She shoved her body against his, pushing him backwards toward the bed. When they were close enough she shifted her hands down from his neck to his chest and, drawing an uneven breath, pushed him as hard as she could. He grabbed her by the shoulders as he was propelled backwards though, falling so that she straddled his mid section when they finally came to rest on the mattress.

He grinned hugely up at her and stroked at the highest curve of her ass. She laughed and leaned down to kiss him again, scooting her hips backwards as she did so. As their mouths touched; just as she was about to settle over him, his hands clutched her with bruising force. His spine arched alarmingly, in a moment his entire body was supported only by his upper back and, it seemed, his heels. His mouth opened as though to scream but only a sickening, wet choking sound emerged. His grip tightened, his fingers sank into the flesh over her kidneys, his thumbs pressing into the front of her pelvis. She screamed softly in pain and confusion. The sound died in horror as the flesh of his face and neck began to crack. The fractures spread over his chest; her hand resting on the left side of his chest suddenly sank into his pectoral muscle as a gaping wound opened under it. His head thrashed back and forth: pieces of the right side of his face around his eye fell away; the eye itself clouded over as its lid shredded off. His whole body turned the whitish grey of wood ashes left too long in a hot fire.

As suddenly as the spasms had begun they ended. He fell back onto the bed. Her only indications that he still lived were the heaving of his chest, the sluggish flow of blood from his wounds and his brutal hold on her abdomen. She could not run. The urge to cry or scream was almost overwhelming but she feared that she might be sick if she dared open her mouth. His intact eye finally fluttered open. She saw all of his pain in it for a moment before he focused on her. His expression again became that of her lover, tender and sweet, warm and familiar. It was almost more terrifying to see it on his newly ravaged face than to have watched the transformation moments before. He smiled and opened his mouth to speak.

--I lov−

His body suddenly crumbled beneath her. She was left kneeling in a smear of ashy dust. She screamed then; until her lungs contracted from lack of air and her brain mercifully shut down, plunging her into red rimmed darkness.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The darkness had more colors than red in it; the purple of a bruise flowed across it as Kreia told her she was a failure and professed her desire to kill the Force. Atris's accusations of arrogance and evil came wrapped in yellows. Bao-Dur was a deep, aching blue as he recounted his memories of the war again. Malak tempted her in the cave backed in the flame tones he favored. Canderous was the grey of his armor, Mira green, Atton, a deep rich brown, The Disciple was pale, pale blue, even HK and T3 pulsed different shades of electric blue.

She had no color.

The black lightened and lightened, to grey, to white, to the med bay of the _Hawk_. Something was tickling her hand, turning her head to look at the appendage in question she saw that it was the ends of the Disciple's hair. He had fallen asleep with his head on the pad of her cot. She flexed her fingers in an attempt to move her hand away from his head. Unfortunately her movements woke him. He jerked upright and looked at her muzzily before grinning hugely.

-- Welcome back! I− we were worried. How are you feeling, dizzy, nauseous? You didn't appear to have any injuries but does anything hurt? What about you connection to the…ah…the−

She was tempted to slam some loose medical supplies into walls just to prove to him that her connection to the Force was just fine. The fact that her head actually did feel like it was about to fall into two or more pieces just from moving her eyeballs around to focus on the Disciple stayed that impulse however.

--I'm fine. How long have I been unconscious?

--Two days.

He checked her pulse, lingering far too long over her wrist; not meeting her eyes. She wanted badly to be able to jerk her arm away but still felt too unsteady to try; the Disciple also tended to give her better answers if she let him take these little liberties. She could also better gauge his usually well obscured feelings with a physical contact.

He finally raised his eyes to her face, deep concern written all over his features.

--How much do you remember?

'Everything' seemed an imprudent response. Especially when she could feel the deep curiosity radiating off of the man next to her. The Disciple always seemed a bit too eager for information, or perhaps it was the fact that he tried to hide his desire behind a façade of either affectionate anxiety or professional detachment, depending.

--I remember…The Council saying I was a danger…that they must cut me off from the Force permanently else I would become like Visas's former master.

He knew all of this already. His facial expression remained unchanged but frustration rippled through his Force signature.

--Anything else?

He wanted to know about Kreia; wanted to know about why and how she had lost her connection to the Force before, whether or not it had really been a judgment. She decided to give him something.

--Kreia. I remember Kreia appearing just before they were going to…She killed them and she fled. She was the Lord of Betrayal all this time.

--Do you know where she is going?

Yes, she knew perfectly because she knew Kreia. She knew that Kreia would go back to the place that she believed to be the Exile's greatest weakness and her strongest redoubt, Malachor V. Kreia, no, Darth Traya again, thought that the power contained in the planet would not allow the Exile to escape again; that in her fall all of her pain and all of her connections would bring the Force down with her.

The Exile hardly felt that the Disciple with his righteous wrath, and possible Republic allies, needed to know this and fling themselves into the fray. In fact she suspected that her former Master wanted as many of her former companions to rush to stop her and in their haste upset the knife-edged balance of the galaxy.

--Telos.

He didn't ask her why. Just nodded tightly and finally released her arm. It didn't surprise her that he knew about Atris's little bolt hole but she did wonder what else he knew and had decided to withhold. Yes, she needed to have a little chat with the Disciple about his information soon. She smiled wickedly to herself; maybe she would let Atton help. Luckily the blond man had risen and turned away from her: he missed the smile entirely.

--I'll go and tell the pilot where we need to go. Will you be alright on your own now?

She nodded and he left. Pushing her self very slowly into a sitting position she waited for the sound of Atton and the Disciple bickering. Her wait was much longer than it should have taken for him to reach the cockpit and she thought she distinctly heard him move _away_ from it first, toward the starboard cargo bay; coming back through the central lounge several minutes later. The moment he relayed her orders though was unmistakable. Atton bellowed like a wounded Gundark and crashed into the med-bay seconds later.

--We are not running off after that witch just so you can get yourself killed you idiot! You can't even stand!

The Disciple appeared behind the incensed rogue wearing a look of shocked disgust.

--How dare you talk to her that way you−

He was cut off by Canderous unceremoniously picking him up and dumping him just outside the threshold of the door before keying the thing shut. Atton and the Exile stared in shocked silence. Atton recovered first.

--Where the hell did you come from?

-- I ain't deaf boy. I think half of Dantooine may have heard you, despite our orbit pattern.

He turned toward the Exile.

--And I agree with him. You are in no condition to fight anyone, let alone _her_.

--We aren't going to Telos for a fight. We're going for information.

Atton sputtered incoherently while Ordo just leaned against the door in that implacable way of his. She continued.

--Atris has data, artifacts, other things we will need to find and stop Kreia.

Atton was still confused.

--Then why did you tell−

He jerked his thumb towards the wall behind him.

--that we were off to find that hag.

She didn't want to let too many people in on her game but these two weren't about to leave her a choice. At any rate, she reasoned, two more sets of eyes on the Disciple was all to the good.

--I have a hunch about him. I can't tell you two everything, just in case he reads it from you, but if you could keep an eye on him I'd appreciate it. Just let me know if he does anything odd…like sneak off to a cargo bay or something.

Atton looked pleased by the idea that he might catch the blond in some sort of plot and nodded readily. Canderous took a bit longer to agree, weighing the information he had against what he didn't before finally bowing slightly toward her.

--Good. Now, if you'd both like to leave me in peace. I'd like to get as much rest as possible before we hit Telos.

They left. Canderous bodily dragged the waiting Disciple aside and loudly told him to leave her alone. Atton enjoyed this thoroughly. Hiding her smile she reached out through the Force, carefully so as not to make her headache worse, and re-keyed the door.

Alone now she finally let herself go. Scooting backward until she was flush with the wall she brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. She rested her forehead against them and shook. She couldn't see her hips beneath her clothing but she could feel each finger shaped bruise on them like a brand; could still feel him dissolving away beneath her thighs. Every moment of the dreams she had experienced in her coma were seared into her mind. She remembered a place destroyed decades before her birth more vividly than she did her life at the Academy on Dantooine. She remembered the touch of a lover she had never known perfectly. She stopped shaking

She did not fear those memories. She did not regret wanting to experience them again. She no longer cared that she had a deep connection to a Sith Lord. The Masters had accused her of leeching the life from those around her. They feared she would become an empty, ravenous ghost like the other Sith Lord. She laughed mirthlessly. How little they understood. She was an all consuming creature, but not a directionless wraith: no, her hunger had a focus, an opposite pole that it sought to sate itself against. She drew life from only one other being, as he drew it from her. The only question left to answer was whether she would choose to consume or be consumed.


	7. Faithless Hope

_Each night sets fire to its own star_

_And dances a black dance around it _

_Until the star burns out_

_Then the nights divide themselves_

_Some become stars_

_Other remain night_

…

_The last night becomes both star and night_

_It sets fire to itself_

_And dances the black dance around itself_

_−Vasko Popa_

Telos was a fascinating, complex entity in the Force. Even more so than the seething, miles deep canyons of Nar Shaddaa or the oddly depleted silence of Dantooine which was like a great building that should have been filled with people but was echoingly empty. It was like a reverse reflection of Korriban. Whereas that planet was wrapped in dark, half heard whispers and malevolent shadows of things long dead, Telos was sibilantly alive. She remembered thinking that the entire place had an intangible glow created by the quiet, unflagging determination of the Ithorian herds to reinvigorate the ravaged surface.

The first time she had been here she had been shaky from her encounter on Peragus; unsure of herself and forced into the company of others for the first time in years. It had been this place, its profound presence in the Force, that had allowed her to take her first steps back into the communion of Force users. She felt connected to the planet now. Chodo Habat had even gone so far as to compare her broken psyche to the ravaged world. G0-T0 had also announced the vital importance of it to the continuation of order in the galaxy, in a manner that she had thought was directed especially toward her; but with an expressionless sphere it was almost impossible to tell what subtext there might be in such statements.

Now, though, the Citadel Station was an insane scene from one of Corellia's hells. She could hear the groans and shrieks of those fighting throughout this part of the complex. Worse, she could feel the deaths of others throughout the station. They swirled around her screaming their last thoughts, some incoherent with rage or pain or fear, some lucid enough to wish for a final moment with a loved one; all were tinged with the bitterest regret, a deep knowledge that this should not be them, they were not meant to die this way. And then there was nothing; they blinked out to be replaced by another set of desperate final moments. With Telos's amplification of her senses it was too much like Malachor, she felt herself losing control by inches, though what would happen when she finally broke she didn't know.

Silence fell over her section of the station then. She wondered idly if she had suddenly gone deaf from one too many explosions; there was no sound of breathing, sobbing: nothing. But now, something; rhythmic, tonal, melodic. Someone was singing. A man with a deep baritone: presently another voice joined his, this one either a high tenor or a low alto, the gender indistinguishable. Another and another; they blended now all low, most male; some in the general vicinity, and some came through the comlink in her ear.

The surviving Mandalorians were singing. She could not understand the words but the sentiment beneath them was unmistakable. They sang with joy for the victory and with sadness for the loss of their fellows, they welcomed the worthy dead into their memories and embraced the fierce elation at the end of a battle. All of the teachings of the Jedi told her this was the Dark Side, there was no joy in battle; neither was their anger over the deaths of comrades and allies; neither was there a deeper bond forged by the blood letting.

But the Mandalorians were not Dark, even from the war she remembered always being struck by the positive energy in the Force that surrounded them even in the midst of chaos. She remembered the closeness of the battle groups, all feeding off of and supporting one another until they become nearly impossible for her to tell apart in the Force. She felt the same now, but it was not just the Mandalorians. Every victorious survivor pulsed with it and, gradually, she realized that they too were singing. They did not know the words to the song but they blended their voices into the melody as well. They were in harmony in so many ways that the embrace of the Force as the Jedi understood it would never allow: in ways the use of the Force as practiced by the Sith would never be able to achieve.

In that moment she realized that she wanted more than anything to sing with them. She also knew she could not, not yet. She felt something touch her face. It was Visas's hand. She realized now why she had taken the girl on, she was a kindred spirit. In Visas was reflected her own struggle, her own emptiness and longing for an impossible union. She had thought of the Miraluka as a creature that understood only how to be broken beneath the will of another; but now she saw that the girl knew what it meant to balance between the desire to purse and consume that other, or to be totally overcome by them.

She turned to face the woman beside her; took in her sooty face beneath the veil, now ragged and missing some of it trim. Visas now brought her hand back to her own face and traced her fingers around her exposed cheek and up under the veil; the black particles on her face began to run together as the moisture from her fingers reached them. The Exile realized she had been crying; she had been crying and now Visas, who had been robbed of her ability to do so was literally borrowing her tears to express her understanding of the Exile. It was almost the most intimate exchange she could recall being privy to. In that moment she realized another truth, one that she was not fully ready to acknowledge. She knew that she would be forced to, and soon. She had seen how this connection between Visas and herself would be severed in that grim moment.

She rose, wrapping her hands around Visas's arm to bring the girl up with her. The Exile blinked several times, clearing her eyes before she spoke.

-- Where is Ordo?

-- Here I am. What is it?

He was, predictably, scratched up, scorched and extremely cheerful.

-- I need you to get as many of your people as are fit together and ready to move out as soon as possible.

-- And what should I tell them we're heading for?

-- _The Ravager._

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Why was everything about the Sith so very red? For a group that paid such lip service to individual emotions and every being for itself they were desperately mundane in their presentation. Were she not so exhausted the Exile might have wondered more about why these situations of such extreme danger seemed to illicit whimsy in her more than anything else; but as it was she only let the thoughts run through her mind with the least possible bemused reflection. It was down to her, Visas and Mandalore now. Their other companions had evacuated after she had convinced Tobin to destroy himself and the ship at her command.

It had been a difficult task. Not so much the persuasion, Tobin had been weak willed to begin with and his extended proximity to the Lord of Hunger had only made him more malleable. Bending him had been only a preliminary exercise, an antepenultimate attempt. The challenge had been making herself understand why she needed to sacrifice his life; in finding the order to the destruction that led to the best possible future. The challenge had been accepting her own actions without justifying them. She had murdered him as surely as if she had taken her saber to him. She was responsible for his death, for the horror and the pain of it. Her actions were abhorrent and she would become monstrous through completing them but thus was her lot now. She had chosen it in full knowledge; the first thing she had ever done in perfect understanding and perfect trust in her life.

She held onto that acceptance of her nature and task as the three approached the cloaked figure on the bridge. As he turned to face them she felt her resolve waver in the face of his raging emptiness. Both she and Visas were pinned to the floor, whether by his power or his ravenous presence she could not have said. She must have choked out something about what they had done to the ship or perhaps she had ordered him to surrender, or threatened him because the disturbing, scraping thing that passed for his voice confronted them. She vaguely heard Visas beg her former master for leniency. Foolish of her, no Sith could offer mercy and no creature as perverted as Nihilus had become could turn away from the opportunity for power they presented.

And then she knew. She knew how to win this. His weakness was Sion's.

She offered herself to him. He could not resist and it was his undoing. In the moment that he attempted to drain her she reached along the connection and felt his defeat. He had mistaken her, had mistaken himself. He was caught in his own trap as surely as any of his prey had ever been. All that was left was to crush him with the hammer he had forged. Visas.

They fought then: the four of them. It did not matter. In a moment she turned to Visas and reached out to the girl, opened herself to the other as she never had before. She needed the other woman to understand, and she did. She knew he was too powerful already but it was only then that she grasped her own power over him as well. The master is no master without the slave. By surrendering to him she had bound them together in a way far stronger than either of them must have realized.

The Exile gave voice to the action that they both knew the Miraluka must now take. Visas smiled as she raised her saber: turned it on herself. As it pierced her she began a fall, with her master, a fall far longer and darker than either of them had known. There was anguish and joy to such degrees in it that one became indistinguishable from the other. The Exile felt it course through her; nearly enough to bring her down too, even by proxy.

Nihilus ended in a blaze of red, inevitably. Visas died with one last desperate plea for approval.

Now there was only one more confrontation. She stood at the edge of the ultimate, the deciding factor in whether or not she would be able to follow her new found wisdom where it might lead or surrender herself, like Visas. She felt totally out of sync with everything around her; adrift in a surreal dreamscape populated by things that should be familiar but weren't. She indulged herself briefly by venting some of her spleen on Ordo, over his comment about the worthiness of Visas's demise. He had failed to understand the true nature of her sacrifice; but then that was the point. She and Visas had finally understood each other, had finally comprehended their unique positions in the flow of history.

Visas and Nihilus, The Exile and Sion; binary pairs each, trapped in each other's gravity. They could never escape the pull of that other consciousness in theirs'.

But they were not stars; they could be free if they wished, if they were willing to become something so totally different as to be unrecognizable. The Exile would need to decide if she wanted to be that strong.


	8. Flesh and Eternity

_Against the black _

_I have more fervour _

_than you in all the splendour of that place, _

_against the blackness _

_and the stark grey _

_I have more light; _

…

_and my spirit with its loss _

_knows this; _

_though small against the black, _

_small against the formless rocks, _

_hell must break before I am lost; _

_before I am lost, _

_hell must open like a red rose _

_for the dead to pass. _

−H.D.

They were all waiting for her. She could feel what was left of her party gathered behind her in the central communications room of the _Hawk_. She could feel Kreia somewhere to her front, on the surface of the shattered planet. She could feel _him_ most strongly. He pulsed and throbbed in her consciousness. He swirled colors across her mind and whispered in her subconscious. She knew that she could delay no longer; decisions must be made; action taken.

Best to start on the ship.

There was no sudden halt of conversation at her entrance; the mood was uniformly grim. She stopped three steps into the room and looked at the Disciple. She waited several long moments for the blond man to stop attempting to fix his face into a falsely reassuring expression. Once he was well and truly aware of her mood she spoke.

--I don't think that you should accompany the party to the surface of Malachor.

He seemed about to speak but she held up her left hand to stop him.

--I don't need to Republic crashing down on our heads before what needs to be done is finished.

His mouth snapped shut on what she assumed must have been a protest; he looked miserable. She steeled herself not to let the flicker of sympathy in her mind reach him. Ordo growled softly then; speaking before anyone could stop him.

--I should have _known_ that you would go behind our backs and bring the _Republic_ into this. You slick−

--Canderous!

Surprisingly it was Mira that stepped in. She physically placed herself between the two men, nearly grasping the Mandalorian's forearm before stopping herself abruptly.

--The last thing we need is you two to rip each other apart before…before…

She seemed unable to give voice to the inevitable end. The Exile again raised her hand and continued.

--Thank you Mira, you're absolutely correct. The Disciple will remain here on the _Ebon Hawk_. He will initiate no further communications with the Republic, and Mira, I trust that you and Mandalore will make sure of this.

She chose to ignore the too quick look that passed between the red-head and Ordo. The Disciple looked thoroughly despondent now. She thought he might try to beg for forgiveness or some like thing but he surprised her by remaining silent; accepting the guilt and punishment both almost stoically. He had made his choice; so had Mira and Ordo.

--I will go to the Academy alone.

She heard Atton make an odd, strangled sound but beyond that there was nothing.

--Bao-Dur, can you ready the Mass Shadow Generator from here?

--No. I need to be planet side to be certain...that it will work.

--All right. Take what and whom you need down with you. I will accompany you as far as I can.

She didn't need to elaborate further. They knew that they would each face this end alone, whether on the surface or in the ship. There was nothing more to say.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The door to the final chamber, the last room before the Core itself might be the most terrifying thing she had ever faced. In this moment if she had been offered the experience of the last battle of the Madalorian Wars over this very planet she might accept it. Knowing the consequences of failing here she still hesitated. But it was useless in the end; her destiny was that of the interwoven hunter and prey. It was a relationship that had to change. Like the other companions on her journey she needed to determine whether or not he could accompany her any farther or be left behind.

She stepped forward to trigger the door.

The way he walked towards her reminded her of their corporeal encounter on Korriban; it also brought to mind the incorporeal ones. He warned her away from the dead planet; warned her away from Kreia. She thought she could almost feel fear in his words as he attempted to save her mind, her body from their mentor. He did not want to fight her anymore than she did him. He begged her to let the planet do it for him. He begged her not to suffer at the crone's hands even as she felt an agony deeper than flesh welling up as she looked at him: because of him.

There were too many things she wanted to say, they piled up in her throat and choked her into silence. Finally, as he grew impatient, unsure of what she wanted, she asked him the first thing that escaped her lips.

--What is this place?

She cringed inwardly even as the words echoed in the empty room; wishing they had been more eloquent, more relevant, less obviously a ploy for time. His answer was rather longer than she expected, a ploy of his own most likely; a relic from the ancient Sith, here before the Madalorian Wars. She heard Kreia in his voice and half wondered if she sounded like that. She is brought up short by the last part of his explanation.

--It creates hunger. Many Jedi have been consumed by it.

She feels that hunger, not so much created as amplified; one look at his too hot eyes lets her know that she has imagined nothing. He felt it too. She still could not state it outright. Instead she asked if what he showed her was mercy, hoping, fearing that he would be able to do what she could not yet. He gave her no such satisfaction; but what he did say makes her chest tighten so painfully that she understood the meaning of heart-hurt.

He feared that she would no longer know herself when Kreia finished with her. He feared she would become like him. She asked him to stand aside, knowing he could not. His answer did not surprise her but his assertion that it was _her_, the desire to keep her as she was, that drove him made the pain in her chest exquisitely worse. He was perfectly correct. There was no middle ground anymore.

Yet, she still would not offer him battle, and, though it was apparent that he could not attack without her consent, she persisted. She asked him why. His answer confirmed her worst fears: her hopes. She knew now that they _had_ shared those dream-encounters. She knew they were connected by a bond as strong as that which she shared with Kreia; as strong but rooted in a totally different place in their beings. He was on the verge of naming its source.

He didn't. He did something so much worse.

He called her beautiful. He called her beautiful and bore out her suspicions. He was the one who must fall for her to continue. She was the pursuer and he the prey. What was worse, his acquiescence was so complete that he continued to pretend he did not know the outcome of this fight; continued to hurl half-hearted threats.

She tired again to persuade him, confirmed for him their connection in hope that perhaps, if the Force was kind, he would accept her offer. Go with her.

He refused; tried to send her away. He stated his hope that she would surpass Kreia in time. It was then that the Exile began to realize that Sion truly did not understand the end game before him. Even only half grasped this thought was far more painful then the agony of any of his previous assertions.

She could not bear it. She attacked, even as she cried her lack of hatred, she attacked.

She tried to make him see what he was rushing towards in his folly. Strove to show what his lack of belief and understanding would end in while he regenerated through the planet's dark power but it was useless.

Even as they fought she battered his mind, tried to scream through the Force that he must turn away from Kreia; that this battle was a ruse meant to destroy him; that she wanted to save him. Her desperation, however, and his misapprehension doomed her to failure. Even when she tried to articulate it, to make him see Kreia's true plan, he held fast to his delusion.

He was a slave. In his every relationship he was a slave and he could not accept freedom.

His subservience stopped him from voicing his feelings plainly, he could only skirt them by claiming a desire to spare her pain from anyone but him. He did a beautiful job of causing her pain too. He was so masterful in his intentional and inadvertent attempts that anguish stilled her tongue each time she tried to speak her heart.

They fought on.

She begged him one more time to understand and again he refused. He hesitated in answering her though; she felt her heart leap for her throat, buoyed by hope, but he remained staunch. She tasted bitter ashes. There would be no last minute reprieve, he had chosen his path and she could not step off hers.

When he fell again she knew it was over. Her mind was merciful at least. It made her speak the right words; go through the correct motions to end this interminable fight; to give him some peace. He still failed to comprehend.

It was perfectly possible to continue after one's Universe had died around you. She had done it twice before and even now, as his heart slowed, hers beat on. She appealed to the man he had been then, tried to make him acknowledge something further of their connection, if only to give her some thin comfort.

Amazingly, this last worked, to some small extent. She felt him reach out to her; a flicker at first and then stronger. He became something like the half remembered, half imagined lover of her dream state. She could taste a ghost of his tenderness and passion. His mental caress held a confession even more harrowing than the one he verbalized. It was not the blades of the Force that had caused him such pain. It was the lack of those things stronger and more enduring. It was the memory of what was, what might have been.

Even as he warned her that the hag would try to show her how far a person could fall she felt no fear. She knew: so did he.

She wanted to go to him as he collapsed but her feet would not obey her brain. It took several moments for her to collect herself so that by the time she reached him he was barely a ripple in the Force. She knelt and finally, finally, touched him.

This hand had never known his flesh but there were memories of another hand, another time that flooded her now. It was a cruel trick of the Force to do this to her now. To show her what had been hers, to tempt her with the false hope that it could be hers again only to coerce her down a path that made such things impossible. She felt something crawling up her throat and was surprised to find it was laughter. It was the only response that seemed appropriate. She had, after all, already wept and screamed her imprecations to the Force and those that served its will and here she was fulfilling those threats _while _doing its bidding. What was that if not funny?

She ran her new hands over his slack, cooling face again and again; trying to commit it even more strongly into her psyche. She caught herself starting to make promises to him, to the Force, again and stopped herself. Look where such action had gotten her, a hollow shell of a woman tormented by too many memories and too much responsibility. She had learned that lesson at least. It seemed wrong though to simply abandon him in this place with nothing from her this time around.

Kneeling silently for a long time she waited for some inspiration. It came to her slowly, softly, almost like a psychic caress. A smile, real and free of bitterness, half formed on her lips.

She gave him the words that neither could say in this life.

--I love you.

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A.N. Sorry to intrude but I need to get this off my chest.

Wow, I got a bit more involved with this chapter than usual. I'm feeling a bit bruised and teary honestly. That may be because my part of the real world very nearly became an unmitigated disaster and I'm still running on nothing but adrenaline; or possibly that it's three am here as I finish, but this one was rough.

I think one more chapter to wrap things up tidily will do it. After I'm done moping, and moving probably, that is.

Send some good vibes my way if you could; help me recover faster.


	9. Lamentation

**_Right, at this point I think I'm stepping off of the speculative path and fully into an Alternate Universe. This is my explanation; I like it, its fun. Obviously it's totally non-canonical but, hey, this is a fanfic. I also think this may be fluffy, just a little. _**

**___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose,  
Nothing don't mean nothing honey if it ain't free._

−Janis Joplin

The armor she had borrowed from one of Ordo's warriors was not as cumbersome as the atmospheric suit she had donned on Peragus but it was still created a strange sense of distance from the world outside the visor. It was a necessary evil; however, not even her now considerable powers could protect her from the radiation and the chemical storms here on Ossus.

She had defeated Kreia; had killed her and survived, despite all of the dire predictions. There had, of course been more predictions after that. The part of her that was still The Jedi Exile, General of the Madalorian Wars, Last Hope of the Republic, had wanted to know the fates of her companions; had wanted assurance that this part of her life had not been in vain. Even as that portion of her took comfort in the words the other part had known that it mattered hardly at all. They were safe in their unknowing revolutions in time. Live, die, live again, die again; never really remembering who and what they had been, such was the lot of those held safe in the Force. It was only when one became like her, like Revan, that their fate became their own.

Creatures like they two could not coexist with the privileged unenlightened that made up this Republic, this galaxy. They would only bring destruction to those around them; their dissonance with the rise and fall of the composition that was life caused such terrible ripples. Kreia had been caught in one of those ripples; it had dragged her down and torn her to pieces, leaving only the confused, babbling shell of a great woman. The entire Republic Army, or nearly, had been breached and sunk by those awful swells. Revan had left when he realized what his proximity to his former friends and companions had done.

Of course, she would follow him, as she had before. Better to destroy one's enemies piece by piece then one's friends. They would destabilize the Sith from within by their very presence. It would not stop the coming wars but it would ensure that the root of the foundations of Sith power was too weak to support their ambitions for long. They would be a subtle poison in the well of power from which the Sith drank, though they would die sooner or later their antipodal influence would be as near eternal as the Force.

She would follow her commander soon but first she had business to finish with her nearest past.

Knossa was a city of shattered bones. It took concentration to see the city as she had known it almost fifty years before. In the end it was an imperfect vision with the city she wanted to see nothing more than a pale shade, superimposed over the irradiated remnants. It was enough though. She found the square from her dream-memories and then the remains of the building that had been their temporary refuge, hers and Sion's. She realized now that could not remember his other name.

It didn't matter.

She picked her way through rubble until she reached what had been the center of the lobby to the building. She thought she recalled a fountain here, surrounded by stone benches and plants. She thought she might have enjoyed sitting there; had done so often.

Yes, here were the remains of the pool. There was no where left to sit so she stood near the cracked cistern and let her mind drift.

Perhaps he had been a Jedi come for some arcane piece of information from the library, maybe even a padawan undergoing the last stages of his training. Then again he could simply have been some force sensitive visitor or even a Krath agent. She honestly could not remember and may not even have known. She would not then have been in any position to speculate. She had been, after all, only an assistant at one of the numerous research stations. She must have been at least sensitive to the Force, but then again maybe not. She thought in the affirmative because she vividly remembered their first meeting now.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

She had been finishing lunch at one of the open air café's around the square before her. There had been others with her, friends or colleagues, both most likely because she recalled the meal as having been pleasant and herself as reluctant to return to the sterile, artificial environment of the station. She had been looking out across the square, drinking in the early afternoon light and warmth, when she had seen him. He had been standing near the middle of the square all alone and he had been looking directly at her. The intensity of his stare had made her uncomfortable and she had looked away but when she hazarded a glance back she saw that he had been not only still looking at her but was now approaching.

She had tried to make a graceful exit before he reached the low stone wall that enclosed the café terrace but one of her companions had noticed him and quickly asked her who the attractive male wandering their way was. It was by then too late either to bolt or answer coherently because he was upon them. He had barely looked at the other pair at the table and had asked only her name. She remembered giggles from the other women as they excused themselves and she sputtered to answer.

She must have coughed it out eventually and they must have had some conversation, perhaps they had even had several meetings. Her next memory of him was later though, with enough time having elapsed for them to have settled comfortably into the early stages of a romantic attachment. She remembered the morning that comfortable relationship had intensified. He had come early to this very fountain, had met her unexpectedly on her way to work, and told her that he must go. There had been rumors of war for some time and now it seemed that full scale conflict had been declared. He was going to fight that war. He had reassured her that the fighting would be far from this world as he held her while she shook and wept quietly, fearing not her safety but his. She had not gone to work that day, instead they had retired to her apartment and spent the hours before his transport left making love for the first, and each feared the last, time.

Whatever he had been before when he returned from Empress Teta almost a year later he had become something else. He had spent several days at the Great Library which seemed to cement the change in him. She accepted all of this because he was her man, because she was madly in love perhaps, or maybe it was because she already bore a secret resentment toward the haughty and unknowable Jedi that populated the planet.

He stayed for only days and then he left for Yavin. It was from this time on that she recognized that her life began to take on a split character.

There was the world of other people, of work and social activities. Then there was the world she inhabited with him. One of total devotion in which no other entity existed outside of they two. Gradually though this other world, dark, more intense became the only one she wanted. Work fell by the wayside as did her life at large between his visits. It was at some point during this time that she first became aware of latent talents.

It could have been her proximity to him as a Force wielder but it seemed more likely to her that it was the time spent almost in solitude that allowed her to discover something that had always been there. She had not spoken to anyone for nearly three days when she first reached out through the Force. She broke a cup at that first attempt and scared herself so badly that she refused even to clean up the pieces for another day. Gradually though she began to gain in courage and attempt more ambitious exercises with the Force. By the time he returned she was able not only to move the cup but also bring it to her across the room and even levitate several objects at once.

His face had not immediately reflected the delight or pride she had hoped for. Instead he had seemed both enraged and frightened. He had grabbed her then, hard enough to leave bruises for days afterward and for the first time she had been afraid of him. He had demanded to know who had taught her to do this; who else knew of her new skills. When she had reassured him that it was only him his demeanor had shifted again. He had stood staring out the large window in the front room for a long time, his expression distant and fearsome enough to warn her not to disturb him. Finally he had told her that he needed to see someone and that he would return shortly.

She had wept in the 'fresher after he left, filled with shame and anger at this first rejection she had ever suffered at his hands. He had come back during the night when she was curled miserably in their, it had stopped being her's in her mind long ago, bed. He had been all gentleness and apologies. He had even offered to train her, so long as she told no one else what was happening. She had agreed without enthusiasm. She remembered wishing more that she had never discovered her affinity for the Force in the first place. He had been adamant though and had spent the rest of the night, and much of the next day, training her to mask her presence in the Force.

Now their relationship changed again, creating ever more tension and secrets in her other life, the one without him, as she now thought of it. He was her teacher and lover, one who became more and more intense as the months progressed. At times he seemed almost in a frenzy to both keep her away from the Force, as the girl he had first met; and to push her to master techniques faster and faster. It required all of her attention to keep up with him and, eventually, she was politely told to take a leave of absence from her position in order to "resolve whatever personal problems she was currently facing in order to return to peak mental and physical health." She was half promised a reinstatement after a period of "review."

It no longer mattered to her anyway. Sion, he had been calling himself that after the events in Empress Teta, had recently begun to provide her with credits, perhaps he had anticipated her dismissal. Now she lost almost all contact with the galaxy outside of him. He began to see her more but often demurred to let her go outside much and certainly never on her own. She should have realized how unhealthy the entire situation had become but by then she was too caught in the dark vortex to pull herself out even if she had.

Not even she had become so isolated that she could miss the climax of the war; it took place very nearly below her window after all. She had ventured out when some of her former colleagues had pounded on her door and forced her to accompany them toward an evacuation station as pieces of the pulverized nebula hurled toward them. She had been extremely reluctant to leave without Sion and had had to be coerced by one of the Jedis or Padawans in charge of the evacuation. It was in this state, being physically removed from her apartment and "escorted" toward the space port between two Jedi, that he found them. Her memory became vague here; fragmented into momentary images by the tumult of her emotions.

What she had finally pieced together was that Sion had slain both Jedi and had begun to leave with her when a far more powerful group of Jedi had appeared to stop him. Though he managed to defeat three of the four in the end they proved too much for him and he was himself struck down. At this moment her entire recollection was nothing but seething rage without color or sound. She had attacked the remaining Jedi both physically and through the Force. She had murdered that other woman. She was out of control with rage; she lashed out blindly at anyone who crossed her consciousness, not caring who they were or what they might have been doing. She became worse then a mad animal. Fortunately, she realized now, that her raw power was a poor match to disciplined Force users. As she had lain choking out her last breaths after they had taken the only action against her she had left to them she had sworn never to forget what had passed here. She swore it through the Force and the Force kept her promise.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It had been the trauma of Malachor that had pried open the door to her past memories preserved in the Force. She had slammed that door shut and run away from it, and the Force, as much for the terrible things it had shown her about herself as for the pain of the last battle of the Mandalorian Wars. His re-emergence in her life was what had finally pushed her back toward the painful truth that waited for her. Kreia had been correct in assuming that a connection had been made between her and Sion while she lay unconscious during his attack on the _Ebon Hawk_, she had merely underestimated the depth and length or that connection.

The Exile smiled wistfully at that memory. She almost wished that she could have remained ignorant, could have stayed the hero of the Mandalorian Wars returned to save the Republic and the Jedi, but such maudlin desires were foolish in the end. The will of the Force was undeniable, and she had chosen this path, it would not let her deviate to serve her own selfishness. Her life now might even be thought of as penance for the mistakes of the past she mused. That was an elegant explanation but she suspected it was too simple in the end. After all, many others had done far worse then her in the last, hazy moments of her life on Ossus, had done far worse than try to love a Sith, but they had not been removed from the unconscious flow of life.

Perhaps it was her promise in the last moments of her life. Perhaps it was something that she had chosen when she accepted Sion regardless of what she knew him to be. Perhaps it was something else, subtle and lost in her memories. She resolved to ask Revan what had wakened him and what he thought about the whys and wherefores of their condition when she found him.

A small part of her wanted to rage at the trick that had been played on her. After all, her lover would have risen again. There had been no need for her to die. She could not bring the rest of her self to agree with that lone, soft whisper. There was a reason for her to have died as she had. It lay before her now, in the dark with the waiting Empire of the Sith. She had needed to die to fulfill her role now just as Sion had needed to be struck down by her blade. She was become a dark void in the Force to be used against the enemies of the light. Her fall had been longer and darker then she could ever have imagined and she had been torn apart by it; but at the end of that fall were the tools she needed to rebuild her self. She could not have foreseen it, would probably have run from the dreadful things that had been required of her, that were still to be done, but she had not been given the choice. If she must be a monster she would be a useful monster.

Rising, she took on last look around the ruins of her former life. She gave herself over to the threadbare recollections of her joy and passion and pain here. She clutched at them and imagined herself inhaling their fading scent as one would with the clothing of a long departed loved one. It would be the Jedi way to leave them behind now, to walk towards one's new duty with all the ties and concerns of the past laid neatly aside. But she was no longer a Jedi. She chose those memories of love but also the final moments of pain to temper them and locked them away in her mind to be touchstones of her former self.

She walked back toward the shuttle and forward toward Revan and the True Sith.

She did not look behind her.

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_**I would like to thank everyone who read this story and enjoyed it. I would especially like to extend my thanks especially to those who reviewed and those who added this piece to their favorite lists. It means a great deal to me that you would be inspired enough to leave feed back or publicly display your regard for my work. **_

_**The quotations at the beginning of each chapter are referenced as follows.**_

_**1. Michel Foucault, **_**Sexuality**_** 1: 45**_

_**2. Michel Foucault, **_**The Use of Pleasure **_**252-53**_

_**3.**_ _**Fyodor Dostoevsky, **_**Crime and Punishment**_** Part IV Chapter V p. 405**_

_**4. Lucretius **_**De rerum natura**_** Part IV;ll 1097-1101**_

_**5. Dante Alighieri **_**La Vita Nuova **_**Part III ll 11-14**_

_**6. Vasko Popa "Ashes" in **_**Homage to the Lame Wolf**

_**7. H.D. "Eurydice"**_

_**8. Janice Joplin "Me and Bobby McGee"**_


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